


All Things

by illwick



Series: In Between [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Loss of Virginity, M/M, X-Files (because why not?)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-03 05:54:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8699908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: For every beginning, there is an end.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The events in this chapter take place in the time between the Irene and Sherlock's confrontation in Mycroft's office, and the epilogue with Mycroft and John at Speedy's, from "A Scandal In Belgravia" (plus a few references to "The Abominable Bride," if you squint!). As is the case with all other parts of this series, the chapters aren't chronological, so this can be read as a stand-alone--but some mentions of past events make much more sense if you've read Parts 1-4 of In Between.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

The first time Sherlock kisses John, it's on an uneventful Tuesday night. Sherlock had been in a strop for over two weeks, and by that Tuesday he had started to feel slight pricklings of guilt as he hurled vicious verbal barbs at an unruffled John. But then John had returned from the shops with the fixings for his spring pea risotto, which he knows is Sherlock's absolute _favourite_ , and Sherlock secretly basks in the warmth that blooms in his chest every time he sees John trying to please him.

Of course, he's not dense enough to think that John is putting up with his tantrum out of altruism. After all, the incident with The Woman and Bond Air had come to its humiliating conclusion only three weeks before, and Sherlock objectively knows that any normal person with a standard range of human emotion would be feeling betrayed and rubbed raw by the events that transpired in Mycroft's office.

But Sherlock is not a normal person with a standard range of human emotion, so instead he simply feels inconvenienced by the whole affair. After all, that's what sentiment is--an unsettling inconvenience. Memories of Alice have begun to swim to the surface with alarming frequency (no doubt triggered by her uncanny similarity to The Woman), bringing with them the baggage of a chapter in his past that he'd rather not remember. He wants to smoke, and his arms itch, and he'd like to simply turn off his brain for a short while, but he doesn't have the words to explain any of that to John. So instead he calls John an idiot, leaves the milk on the counter to spoil, takes too long in the shower and uses up all the hot water, and then stays up until 4 in the morning composing.

And John, ever-perfect, ignores the name-calling, drinks his morning tea black and comes home with fresh milk, shortens his shower to three minutes instead of his usual eight, and says nothing about Sherlock's nocturnal pastime. And now, on week three of Sherlock's epic pout, John has brought home ingredients for spring pea risotto. He is indulging Sherlock. Internally, Sherlock preens.

Externally, Sherlock lies prone on the couch, eyes fixed on the telly, where an X-Files marathon has been airing for the past two days. He'd tuned in after John left for the surgery yesterday morning, expecting to be hurling the remote through the screen after 20 minutes in disgust, but had found himself perplexingly absorbed. The two detectives were idiots, obviously, but something about their preposterous exploits felt soothing and familiar to him. He rather liked the lady character, the one who supposedly enjoyed science (despite her woefully shallow pool of knowledge about it--though par for the course for an employee of the federal government, he reasons). She seemed steadfast and resolute, even if she was abysmal with a firearm.

"Still at it, then?" asks John while gesturing towards the screen, placing two plates of piping hot risotto on the coffee table and swatting Sherlock's feet off the sofa to make room for himself to sit down. Sherlock begrudgingly sits up and pretends to ignore the risotto.

"Eat." 

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"It's been four days since you've had a bite. Eat or I'm calling Mycroft."

"You wouldn't," says Sherlock, swiveling his head and narrowing his eyes.

"Try me." John says in his Captain Voice (and Sherlock struggles to suppress the shiver that runs down his spine).

Wordlessly, he picks up the risotto and begins to eat.

Two episodes (and two heaping plates of risotto) later, Sherlock is feeling full, warm, and sleepy. John seems perfectly content as well, eyes blearily focused on the telly. On screen, the detectives squabble back and forth about the scientific feasibility of a detachable twin. Sherlock agrees with the red-haired one.

Perhaps it was the hours of mind-numbing binge-watching, perhaps it was the insulin spike caused by the consumption of so much food after so many days without, or perhaps he was simply sleep-deprived and entirely not himself, but for whatever reason, Sherlock's guard is down. And so he blurts out the first mundane thought that comes to his mind,

"Do they end up together?"

John looks over at him, utterly bewildered. "Who?"

"Them. The detectives." Sherlock gestures towards the TV.

"Like...romantically?"

"Yes."

"Um, I think so? I don't really remember, Sherlock, the whole series aired a long time ago and I never paid it much attention."

"Hmm."

"Do you...want them to? End up together?"

Sherlock shrugs. "She's a woman of rare perception."

"So you think she's too good for him."

"I don't."

"So you DO want them to end up together?"

"I have no opinion on the matter."

"Bollocks, 'course you do, or you wouldn't have just asked me if they get together in the end!"

"Romantic entanglements are not a subject upon which I dwell."

"Sure, says the man with a picture of Irene Adler hidden in his wallet."

Sherlock bristles. "How did you find that? Were you going through my things?"

"Of course not, last week you told me to grab 20 quid out of your wallet for groceries, remember? Oh who am I kidding, of course you don't remember...but the point is, it's there, I'm right, you're a liar, end of story." John grins smugly at him.

Sherlock feels like a ton of molten lead has been emptied into his stomach. How can he explain to John that _it's not like that?_ What he feels for Irene, it's all tangled in with his memories of Alice, with his regret over burying all recollections of her, with his shame at not being able to save her. Irene and Alice were so much the same, but how does he explain that to John, without explaining everything that happened after Alice, his humiliating downward spiral and the overdose and the rehab and the daily struggle for normalcy that followed?

There's no way to explain it without going down that path, and Sherlock can never let John know about his past weaknesses. It's too shameful, too plebeian, too pathetic. He can't let John know about Alice. So he cannot explain Irene.

But deep down, he knows there's even more to it than that. Alice, Irene, they were admirable women, his kindred spirits. But he never felt about them the way he feels about John, a fact which he has expended considerable time and energy concealing from John, and this conversation is quickly steering into dangerous waters. 

"She was a formidable opponent in a remarkable adventure." He hopes John will leave it.

Of course, John doesn't. But his smug air is gone, and his face is now open and earnest. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, you know. Feeling like that." So now John thinks that Sherlock was _attracted_ to Irene. Sexually. How could he be so blind?

"As I've said before, John. Women are really not my area."

John sighs, and twists to tuck his leg under himself to face Sherlock squarely. "Why are you so determined to be alone?"

"I'm not alone. I'm with you."

The response comes automatically, and it takes Sherlock one horrifying moment to realize he's said it out loud. The blood rushes to his face and he can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He feels entirely overwhelmed.

He thought he knew what sentiment was. Sentiment was what he felt when Redbeard was put down. Sentiment was what he felt when Alice died. Sentiment made him lost.

_But now I am found._

What he feels for John couldn't be sentiment. It was something bigger than that, more profound, more powerful. It was more than the warm feeling he got whenever John took care of him, more than the surge of affection he felt when he protected John. Sentiment was dirty. But this, this was clean, this was pure, this was whole. It didn't weigh him down. It set him free. He feels strangely defiant.

Sherlock suddenly realizes he's been sitting in silence for a thoroughly awkward stretch of time. John is staring at him with a gobsmacked look on his face. He needs to say something, _fast_ , or John is just going to make some loud, hasty proclamation about his own heterosexuality, and whatever revelation Sherlock has just had, it's nothing he's ready to discuss. He needs time to process, digest. 

He switches gears drastically. "Besides, emotion is abhorrent to me."

John pauses, and seems to collect himself. "I don't believe that for a second. You're a living, breathing man. You've lived a life, you've had a past." He shifts closer to Sherlock, eyes flicking across every line on Sherlock's face.

John is reading him like an open book. Sherlock is at a loss. He feels vulnerable, exposed, a bug pinned to a slide beneath the unblinking eye of a microscope. The last time he felt like this was almost a year ago, that night he and John had danced to his old jazz record in the living room. He's been turned inside out.

John continues steadfastly. "You must have had...experiences." John is close enough now that Sherlock can feel the heat from him, his breath on his face. He wants to drown in it. He's been fighting this for so long, but now John _knows_ , he must _know_...

"For God's sake, John, we are _not_ having this conversation."

"Yes, yes we are, Sherlock. I've known you for a year now, and I can't keep ignoring the elephant in the room. You are flesh and blood, you have feelings, you have...impulses. I'm your friend, Sherlock, and it worries me the way you push people away. What made you like this? Do you feel anything? For anyone?" Sherlock doesn't answer. 

_He knows the way you feel about him. This whole conversation was a ruse. He only wanted to know how you felt about The Woman so he could confirm how you actually felt about HIM. He knows he knows he knows shut up shut up SHUT UP._

Sherlock's inner monologue is quickly veering out of control. He tries to think of some clever way to deflect, but he's quickly succumbing to the heady high that consumes him every time John enters his personal space.

John leans in closer, dangerously close. "Don't push me away."

And with that, Sherlock wraps his hands in the front of John Watson's jumper, pulls him forward, and kisses him full on the lips.

The strange thing is, it's not at all strange. The moment should feel momentous and burdened with meaning and profound purpose, but instead it feels startlingly casual. Their lips slot together naturally as though they've met a thousand times--which, perhaps, in Sherlock's mind, they had-- but that fantasy should have no bearing on the reality that is transpiring on the sofa here in this very real moment.

John's lips are warm and his hands are firm as he cups Sherlock's face and gently tilts it towards his own. His tongue meets Sherlock's without hesitation or fanfare. His breath feels like an extension of Sherlock's own, as though they'd been moving in tandem from the moment they met, and this newborn intimacy is simply a natural extension born of inevitability.

And then John shifts, leaning forward and pressing Sherlock gently back, hovering over him, and he pauses. There's a question in that pause, and Sherlock hears it loud and clear. But there is no question in Sherlock's mind. He leans back.

And then John is on him and over him and through him and Sherlock can never remember a surrender as sweet as this. He can feel John's erection pressing eagerly against him, and he spreads his legs to take John between them, urging him closer.

John's lips disengage from Sherlock's, and he moves on to Sherlock's neck, licking and kissing him with a frantic urgency that seems to resonate at Sherlock's very core. Sherlock is utterly consumed; his hips rise off the sofa seemly of their own accord, eagerly seeking more friction wherever John can offer it.

John obliges. He grinds down into Sherlock, his kisses turning to soft nips a as Sherlock tips his head back, shamelessly exposing himself to the onslaught, an open invitation. John bites down.

Sherlock's orgasm takes him by surprise. One moment he is basking in the molten heat of John's advances, and the next his body is on hyperdrive as the lights in his Mind Palace flicker and go dark. Then there is nothing but the supernova of pleasure that originates in his groin but radiates out to every fiber of his being, and he can swear he feels it from his toenails to the tips of his hair. He can't breathe, he can't move, except to thrust up and grind into his pleasure. Everything is frozen and melting and dark and blinding and spinning and stock still all at once. He knows he is calling out, but it seems distant, remote, wholly detached from his consciousness.

When he drifts back to reality, John's face is above him, blurry and oppressively close. 

"Christ," John murmurs. "Did you...Did you just..."

Sherlock doesn't know what to say. He's not embarrassed, he's simply completely disoriented. He nods.

John pulls back slightly. "Can I...is it okay if I..." He reaches for the button of his own jeans. Sherlock can only continue to nod.

John makes quick work of his fly and takes himself in hand, pulling frantically.

"Christ...Sherlock...Sherlock, I..."

Sherlock wants to say something, to do something, but he knows that's not what John needs right now. Instead, he simply raises his head and presses his lips to John's own, praying that John understands.

John comes with a muffled groan.

And then there is a stifling silence, in which the only sound is their shallow breathing. John is still on top of him, head buried in Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's gaze falls on the empty risotto plates, a thin crust forming where the sauce has cooled and congealed. It seems so startlingly mundane that he can't stop staring at it.

John seems to come to his senses and lifts himself off of Sherlock. He settles uneasily back into his spot at the other end of the sofa, tucking himself into his pants as he does so, and wipes his hand hastily on a napkin.

"I'll just..." John stands and picks up the risotto plates and walks back to the kitchen. Sherlock hears the water in the sink turn on. John is doing the dishes.

Sherlock's pants are sticky and he feels clammy and slightly shaken. On the television, a tattooed man has eaten the detachable twin. Somehow that situation seems less surreal than the one that has just transpired in the sitting room.

An indiscernible length of time later, John returns from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishrag. He has a spot of foam from the dish soap stuck to his neck. Sherlock resists the strange urge to lick it off.

"I'm off to bed."

Sherlock nods, turning his gaze back to the telly.

"You... You're alright?" John queries.

"Just need to hop in the shower. Might try and sleep tonight."

"No more composing?"

"Not tonight."

John smiles. Sherlock doesn't remove his eyes from the television to see it, but he can _feel_ it. With that, John tosses the dish rag back into the kitchen and plods off up the stairs to his bedroom.

Sherlock does shower, but he cannot sleep. And when his phone pings at 3am, he'd be lying if he said he didn't welcome the distraction. Although perhaps in an ideal world, the distraction would not have come in the form of Irene Adler, and the coordinates of a terrorist cell in Karachi.

Sherlock is not entirely certain what the proper etiquette should be following a torrid same-sex encounter with one's supposedly-straight flatmate, but he's fairly certain it doesn't involve skipping town on the first plane to Pakistan. But whatever has transpired between him and John, it should not negate the importance of The Work. Of this, Sherlock is certain. If he loses The Work, he loses himself, and with that, it is decided.

_Family emergency in York. Duty calls. Back Sunday. -SH_

As the plane taxis down the runway, Sherlock wonders if perhaps a text was not the proper way to bid John farewell the same night as their first sexual encounter. That seemed a bit... _not good_. But there was Work to be done, and he couldn't have his brain bogged down with the frivolities of social graces. John would understand. He could explain it all when he got back.

.....

Four days later, Sherlock pulls shut the zipper of his suitcase and does one last perfunctory sweep of his hotel room. Cairo was unpleasantly hot this time of year, despite the luxurious accommodations (courtesy of a grateful Irene Adler), and Sherlock was all too glad to be headed back to the comfortingly dreary skies of London.

Suitcase in hand, he lets the hotel room door slam shut behind him. He considers heading straight for the lifts, but feels compelled (by what? social niceties? John really has been getting the better of him) to stop by the room next door. He knocks.

Irene answers clad only in a skimpy hotel robe, hair still wet from the shower, looking impossibly fresh for someone who a mere 24 hours before had narrowly escaped death. Sherlock suddenly finds he has nothing to say.

Her look is appraising enough as she catches a glimpse of his suitcase in his hand. "Leaving so soon?"

"I'll be missed in London."

"You know, I have this suite booked for the next three nights. Seems a terrible waste for just little old me. Perhaps you could help me make better use of it? We can order room service. Finally have some dinner."

He smiles and shakes his head. "My flight leaves tonight."

She looks him up and down, her eyes cold and calculating. A flicker of realization. "So it's that army doctor of yours? Really? I must say I'm surprised. I didn't expect you'd go for someone so...mundane. Forgive me, but all that seems a bit _boring_."

He sometimes forgets how convincing John's facade of ordinariness can be for those who aren't looking for it. What those unobservant fools never realize, he thinks fondly, is that John's fuzzy jumpers and pleasant disposition are a far better disguise than all the elaborate costumes in Sherlock's extensive wardrobe combined.

He lets out an exasperated sigh. "John Watson is many things. But boring isn't one of them. And if he's got you fooled...then you're not as clever as I gave you credit for."

The predatory look in her eyes fades, and is replaced by something that Sherlock could almost convince himself is affection, mingled with amusement. It's as though she's removed a mask, and for the first time, he's seeing her face--and surprisingly, it is both comforting and familiar.

"Well then," she says with a shrug. "I know when I've been beaten. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me." With a cheeky wink, she leans in and presses her lips against his cheek. "Safe travels, Mr. Holmes."

He turns to leave, but she interjects one more time. "One last thing--if you ever happen across my camera phone again....at any point...would you mind retrieving it for me? I'm afraid I've grown rather sentimental about that old thing."

He smiles, and he can feel it's an honest smile. "Of course."

And Sherlock tells himself it's purely coincidence that, two months later, he loses his virginity to John on the same day John returns Irene's camera phone to him, accompanied by an endearing white lie about Irene and some vague witness protection scheme.

But he knows it's not a coincidence. He'd been pressing John to take their physical encounters further every since he got back from Karachi (first subtly, then with more brazenness, culminating in Sherlock shouting, "WOULD YOU PLEASE JUST FUCK ME ALREADY, I'M NOT MADE OF GLASS" over takeout kebabs four nights before), but John had been hesitant after learning that Sherlock had not ever committed that particular act. Sherlock wanted to ask John what on earth he was so afraid of, but that would violate the first unspoken commandment of their relationship: do not talk about the relationship. In any form. So Sherlock feared sex was off the table.

But that day John had come to him with soft eyes and patient pauses and told him that load of bollocks about Irene moving to America, and Sherlock finally saw with crystal clarity what he meant to John. John wanted to protect him. John feared hurting him. He would rather let Sherlock live in hopeful anticipation than dash Sherlock's dreams of ever meeting Irene again, even if Irene made John mad with jealousy and her death would ensure she was out of the picture for good. John would do anything if it meant sparing Sherlock pain. John would do no harm. 

Dazed with this realization, Sherlock had asked for the camera phone, testing his hypothesis. John had refused. Sherlock begged, twice. John acquiesced.

So that night when John leads Sherlock to his bedroom and removes his clothes and offers himself to Sherlock, Sherlock accepts.

Afterwards, as they lay side by side in the dark, Sherlock listens to John's heartbeat in his chest, and he can swear it's beating a single word on repeat.

_Mercy. Mercy._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events in this chapter take place directly before Sherlock's arrest in "The Reichenbach Fall."
> 
> Thanks for reading!

The last time Sherlock kisses John, it's immediately after John calls him a dick. Or, more precisely, after John tells him, "No one could fake being such an annoying dick ALL the time."

Sherlock's mind is in turmoil, consumed by Moriarty's game, but there, like the eye in the center of a hurricane, is John Watson. John Watson, who truly sees him. John Watson, who will never let him down.

John is gazing out the window, as though somehow being on the lookout for the return of Lestrade and the warrant will prevent the inevitable. He tenses momentarily when Sherlock comes up behind him and wraps his arms around him, undoubtedly surprised; Sherlock had always been adamant that there be no physical relations between them when he was on a case. Too distracting, he'd insisted. But somehow, this feels different.

All of this feels different. As much as he tries to convince himself that this is the same as it's always been, that he's just reeling from the adrenaline of a great game and a good chase, and at the end of the day it will be the the same old carry-out curry followed by vigorous sex and then 14 straight hours of well-earned sleep, deep down he knows it's not to be. That's not how this story ends. It never was.

John turns to face him, and Sherlock presses his lips chastely against John's own, then withdraws and gives him what he hopes is a convincing smile. Sherlock wants more. _God,_ he wants more right now-- wants to drag John into the bedroom and let John tear his barriers down piece by piece, feel John around him, inside him, breaking him apart and pulling him back together in that beautiful, terrifying way he always does. He wants to crack open John's ribcage and crawl inside him and stay there forever, but no, _no_. That's not what this is. This time, that's not what this is.

Lestrade and the others will be back soon. Sherlock wishes there were more time. Not just more time for a good fuck, but more time for one last laugh around the telly, one last shared cuppa, one last lazy afternoon on the sofa, trading out sections of the newspaper and soft, slow kisses and for once, not ever feeling bored. 

But it's all falling apart now. The center cannot hold. He was a fool for believing it could.

He turns away from John before he can allow himself to be tempted, and folds himself into his chair, fingers steepled. John's eyes are on him, Sherlock can feel it, but John says nothing. He goes back to pacing. 

When Sherlock is certain that John is no longer paying attention to him, he allows himself to look, one last time. Sherlock's mind changes when he's on a case; he sees John merely as an asset, an ally, a touchstone upon which he can undoubtedly rely. When he's on a case, he does not see John as his lover.

But now he gazes at him as such, his mind foggy with affection. He appreciates John's form: his gait, perfect and even, the way he holds his back with military rigidity, even after all this time, conveying confidence and composure. The way his eyes, bright with worry, can be so serenely blue, even in a moment like this.

Sherlock suddenly wonders if perhaps his mind wasn't foggy at all in moments of infatuation such as this. What if he's had it backwards all this time; in these moments of doting adoration, his mind is clear, but with his cases, The Work, the rest of it all-- _That_ is the fog that consumes him? Which is real, and which is the dream?

But it doesn't matter now. What's done is done. John's mobile is ringing. Lestrade and the cavalry are surely on their way. 

Sherlock's Mind Palace beckons. He gives John one last lingering glance, and issues a quiet goodbye. Then he calls up his intellect, his steel barriers, his reserve. Castle walls, fortified and true. Alone will protect him.

Alone will protect _them_.

He hopes the end will come quickly. For both of their sakes.

From the roof of St. Bart's, he tells himself it's the only choice. From the pavement below, he knows it's the answer. As he lays on the ground drowned in his own blood, John staggers away from his corpse. All Sherlock can hear is his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.

_Mercy. Mercy._

**Author's Note:**

> ONLY ONE MONTH UNTIL NEW EPS. I NEED MORE CANON FODDER FOR THIS SHIP.


End file.
